


One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII

by atomicsupervillainess



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Also some Huntingbird, And some surprise philinda, Big sis Bobbi to the rescue, Bobbi telling it like it is, Bobbi/Fitz brotp, Confessions, Dignity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Explorations of PTSD and Trauma, F/M, Fitz/hunter brotp, Fitzsimmons drawn to one another, Honour, Hunter gets philosophical, Jemma/Bobbi brotp, Long Suffering Mack, Now-or-never sex, PTSD Will, Sordid Affairs, Texting, and self-loathing, angst with happy endings, basically smut and angst, clingy/needy Will, fitzsimmons is endgame, helpless Will, holy angst batman!, omg that was puntastic, post 3.05, smut to come, trying to deal with the cruel twists and turns of fate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicsupervillainess/pseuds/atomicsupervillainess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not a story about Jemma Simmons choosing to love one man instead of another. </p><p>This is not a story about tragedy, or about hearts ripped asunder, or about the cruel twists and turns of fate and forgetting.</p><p>This is a story about all of it. This is a story about love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, so I was heavily inspired by the recent turn of events in the narrative on-screen, so this was my attempt at seeing how it would play out in my head. That, and I was chatting with my fabulous Beta, Notapepper, who helped me solidify my ideas and then convinced me that the story was compelling enough to warrant a fic about it.
> 
> The title is in reference to one of my favourite Pablo Neruda poems, One Hundred Love Sonnets:XVII. You should look it up, because its its incredibly moving and soooooo Fitzsimmons.

 

* * *

 

Tomorrow would change everything.

There was no happiness with the thought, only a tension that stretched across Jemma’s shoulders and fused to her bones, making her movements these past few days increasingly stilted and marionette-like.

She shuffled numbly into the kitchen, turning the thought like a screw in her mind, over and over, trying not to let it spiral into other thoughts - the thought that the thing between her and Fitz, the little seed that had been planted in the ground (with a dinner invitation and hands that sought each other constantly) would never germinate, not in the light of tomorrow’s day.

Not when they cracked open the world to the nightmare planet.

Not when they plunged back into the shadows.

Not when they rescued Will.

Hunter and Koenig huddled near the kettle, throwing sidelong glances over their shoulders as she approached, moving closer together - closing rank.

That was terrible, wasn’t it? To dread rescuing the man that had saved her from her despair those many months ago? It was more than that though.

Bringing him to S.H.I.E.L.D., Will and Fitz in the same room - it would crush it - that seed, that tiny seed that she had cared for, that little kernel of hope that she had nursed back from the brink, with each captured gaze and lingering touch, every gentle handclasp - that would be it. And she’d never get him back, would she?

It wasn’t Will she was dreading. Not really. It was losing Fitz, all over again. Here, in a world where he existed, where he walked and typed and smiled and sighed and stared at her with such love and longing she felt her heart would burst. He was so close here, so infinitely close, and yet, he would be farther than the galaxies that had separated them once Will was here. She knew that.

She knew he’d try, for her sake, to pretend friendship, instead of whatever that deep, wide, fathomless, inestimable _thing_ was between them. And he would hurt, deeply, in each aching, limitless fathom of that emotion, and smile bravely. And it would break her heart, knowing with surety, then, that she was right - that the little niggling fear that ate at the edges of her mind, wearing her resolve down like tiny termites, was right - that she did not deserve him, could not, not after she’d lost hope, not after she’d hurt him so deeply, so many _countless_ times. She was not worth even an iota of him, and he was worth a universe of her.

But oh, she loved him, and she half-wished she could have flubbed the equations. Carried on the lie. Kept the portal closed. Kept Will in another universe. Kept Fitz close. Kept him _hers_ , selfishly. But there was more than her at stake here. There was always more at stake.

The kettle whistled, jarring her from her thoughts. She dropped the cupboard door with a loud thud and spun, letting out a startled breath.

“-glad to be single.” Koenig muttered under his breath, his back turned away from her.

“You’re tellin’ me, mate. Like it was a holiday in Boca Raton, and here he is, _killing_ himself over it, _throwin_ ’ himself at its mercy, right when I bet she was snogging space boyfriend, too. Bit tarty, really.” Hunter whispered back. Jemma could barely make out what he’d said over the whistle of the kettle, but, regardless of the words she’d missed, the meaning behind them was clear.

She recoiled like she’d been slapped in the face, stepping backwards suddenly. Jemma collided with Mack’s solid mass, her balance tipping wildly (she was still getting used to things here) as her arms shot out.  Mack clasped her shoulders to steady her, and then gave them a brief, businesslike pat. She hadn’t even noticed he’d come in behind her.

“Hunt, shut the hell up, man. Koenig, the boss needs you.” Mack said with a commanding tone. He stepped out from behind Jemma’s frozen, tense form to loom intimidatingly over the smaller man as he poured boiling water into his mug.

“-just a cuppa! _Jesus_ , Mack. You’re the last one I thought would - you know she stole the last of my Yorkshire Gold!”

“Out.”

With a disgusted shake of his head, Hunter rushed out of the common area after Koenig’s hastily retreating form.

Jemma’s shoulders didn’t drop. The silence was worse than the kettle. Her throat was tight, and her eyes were getting glassy. Hastily, to cover the sudden swell of feeling, she tucked her chin to her chest, letting her hair curtain over her face as she cleared her throat. Clutching her mug close, she hurried over to the kettle and poured.

“Thank you.” Her voice was steady. That was good.

Mack looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “I can’t say what I woulda done, in your place. I get it, but I don’t like it.”

“That makes two of us,” Jemma admitted, mashing her lips together to stop their quivering. She stirred the milk into her tea in slow, deliberate circles, not looking at him.

“I know we don’t know each other that well. But I know Fitz - not as well as you, I get that, but -” Mack sighed, like he hated to say what was coming next, but like he had to say it anyway. “- He’s the best of us. You know that right? I never met a better man. And you hurt him - _this_ \- it’s gonna hurt him again.”

Jemma’s hands clamped against the mug, curling tighter and tighter, white-knuckled with the mounting frustration and guilt and self-hatred that bubbled like an oil slick in the pit of her stomach. She flung her head up, her hair haphazardly falling back against her face - the incendiary line of her mouth, and  the burning redness of her eyes. “Don’t you think I know?”

Immediately, tears clouded her vision. She blinked, already moving, already running, the tea in her mug sloshing over the edge and burning her hand. She cursed herself silently for letting her emotions overtake her like that.

She hadn’t noticed Bobbi and Fitz approaching from the lab. Hadn’t seen them from behind the barrier of her other hand, held up against her face to block the sight of her tears from any hapless passersby, caught in the storm of her emotions.

“ Jemma?” Fitz said. His voice was cracked and quiet, and didn’t break through. He swung his head around, scanning to see what could have put her in such a state.

“Turbo…”

Fitz looked to Bobbi, shock and apprehension written all over his face. She patted his shoulder quickly, and started jogging down the hall. “I’ll find Simmons.”

“What the hell, Mack?”

* * *

 

She made it around the corner, but not farther. The hall was empty, the lights low - the circadian cycle clocks reminding the base that it was late, and that most agents had retreated back to their bunks, or their respective common areas.

With a grateful sob, she shifted her hand over her eyes, her face pulling into a grimace as she fell against the wall, pressing her forehead against the cool of the concrete, hoping it would transpose somehow through her skull to dull the heated pounding behind her eyes. Everything she was feeling  was pulsing higher and higher with each beat of her heart. She felt like she was going to explode with the force of it.

“Hey.”

Jemma snapped away from the wall, hastily brushing away tears with her palm and sniffling. “Bobbi. Hi.”

She made a show of looking at the watch on her wrist. “I should get back to the lab -”

“Jemma. Come on. What happened?” Bobbi looked at her with sympathetic eyes, and stretched out a hand.

That was all it took. That one open palm, that tiny act of sympathy, and Jemma Simmons’ mouth couldn’t seem to stop spilling secrets that she’d locked away for months and, if truth be told, years, even from herself.

* * *

 

When Fitz had extricated himself from Mack’s apologies and rounded the corner, he hadn’t expected to come upon a half-whispered, tiny voice, filled with stops and starts. His feet stilled in their approach.

“-Fitz completely. It’s only really him, you know?” Jemma cleared her throat and swallowed the thickness. “It's only ever been him. But, I never _understood_ it - I’m all - well, facts and figures and empirical evidence - and it _was_ \- there was just _too much_ data to draw conclusions from, it happens that way sometimes. Too much to sift through, but it all pointed back. To him. _Always_.”

Fitz heard her voice burst with a sudden wry sob-laugh. “But things are complicated now. I’ve gone and made a hash of it. As _always_. Did Fitz ever tell you how I was when he first me? I’d always muck things up - socially I mean - always just a bit - it’s not where I excel, at any rate.” Jemma drew a rattling breath, and plowed on. “- And I have to finish what was started with Will, on the planet. And I know people blame me. I know Hunter does, and Mack, and probably you -”

“I don’t blame you at all. I’m sorry that happened to you, but I don’t blame you for it,” Bobbi said. Fitz heard the shifting of fabric, and guessed she had wrapped Jemma in a hug. Good.

“When that bottle broke, it was like Fitz died. It was like everything broke - _in me_ \- I just... _shattered_. Everything crumbled. All of it. I was going to die. Without him. Without what we could have _been_ \- and I’d never...” She stopped short, gathering her bearings. “I know now I should have had more faith. But, faith has always been…” she trailed off.

Clearing her throat, she continued. “Anyway, when it broke, I could see no way of getting to him. I’d exhausted every avenue. I wanted to kill myself - just to _die_ \- just to... _end_ , but Will wouldn’t let me. And I’m grateful for that, because now I’m _here_ -”

“With Fitz.”

“With _Fitz_.” The way she said his name, he felt it like a caress against his cheek, a loving brush of fingers and palm, warmly.

“- but I need to take what happened on the planet into consideration, because it didn’t _end_ with Will, not really, and it’s not fair to either man - Will or Fitz.”

Jemma’s voice broke again into sobs. They rolled from her like storm clouds, thundering in the emptiness of the corridor. He wished he could take her up in his arms and just hold her.

“ I-” She hiccupped, and he felt his heart crumple in his chest. “I _hate_ hurting him. I hate it more than anything in the world. I know I don’t _deserve_ any of it - his help, his love, I _know_. What he’s done for me - but all I seem to be able to do is hurt Fitz _more_ , which is terrible, because-”

She took a deep, shaky breath, and then he heard it, said with such conviction it rang like a tuning fork inside him, against his bones, echoing out.

“ _Because I love him_ , oh so, _so_ much. So deeply. More than _anything_.”

More sounds of muffled movement, and then, mumbled, as if into clothing, “I don’t know how I’m going to survive this. Without him...”

Fitz was struck still and silent, something like disbelief and triumphant, screaming jubilation warring inside his heart. He barely heard Bobbi convince Jemma to take the night off, of Jemma’s feet shuffle down the corridor in the direction of her bunk.

“I take it you heard that?” Bobbi asked when she found him, crossing her arms over her chest and quirking a pointed eyebrow.

He tried to make his mouth work. It gaped resolutely open. It took him a moment, but he nodded, rapidly, like all of his electrical impulses were running haywire - like everything in him was searching for ground.

“Go to her,” Bobbi pleaded, coming closer, placing a placating hand on his bicep. “You both want this. You both deserve it. And I know you two - you’ll both hang yourself on the noose of honour.”

Bobbi looked at him significantly, giving him a little shake. Fitz felt his lips curl into a tiny, tremulous smile. “This is your last chance before everything changes. To be together. You and Simmons may not be together after tomorrow, but you can be tonight. No one would blame you.”

* * *

 

 Jemma had shrugged on one of Fitz’s old cardigans. She pulled it tightly around her shoulders, doubling it over her chest, and tucking her nose against the soft wool, taking in the lingering scent. She drew her bare knees up to her chest, like she could curl up with all of her memories of him and draw strength from it. Like she always used to do with him.

She’d have to learn a new way now.

Her eyes were beginning to droop closed when there was a soft clack of knuckles from the other side of the door.

“...Jemma?”


	2. Or arrow of carnations, that propagate fire:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz knocks on Jemma's door after hearing her confession, taking the leap into something more than friendship, more than this night, more than the situation they're stuck in - the leap into more than anything he had ever dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I wanted to save this chapter until Monday (obviously!) But here's the thing - if you haven't seen 3.07 - GO AND WATCH IT AND DON'T COME BACK UNTIL YOU'RE DONE!
> 
> ....Are you done? Good.
> 
> Basically, I wanted to put this out there - which I wrote roughly a week ago? Something like that? Just to celebrate the lovely Fitzsimmons moment we got in the show, and to give our lovebirds a real night together (before all hell breaks loose...as it inevitably does. Thanks, WHEDONS.)
> 
> That being said, consider this your monday post!

* * *

 

* * *

 

His heel bounced nervously as he stood outside the door.

He’d never quite noticed before how imposing it seemed to be. It was a standard door, but the wood grain seemed terribly severe all of a sudden; the height, towering - the whole of it, what it all meant - the metaphor of it, seemed quite final to him, as he screwed up his courage, and raised his knuckles to the door.

It wasn’t just the door - it was the door. To something that might never happen. To something that might never be. To a little pocket universe all their own, tiny, and infinite, and golden. Would it make things easier? To have charted it? Or would it make it harder, knowing the star-space there, the supernova that was destroying and remaking them? Did he even care?

_He couldn’t_.

It was Jemma. And she loved him. And they deserved this.

His knuckles struck the wood carefully. He cleared his throat. “Jemma?”

It took a moment, but the door creaked open, framing her in the dim light. Even like this - her hair undone, her spray of freckles scrubbed free of makeup - she took his breath away. He could hear himself gasp needfully, but he couldn’t stop it. She was wearing one of his ratty old jumpers.

He stepped in, shutting the door behind him, not bothering to remove his eyes from her face, which tilted up to look at him, brown eyes roving his features inscrutably.  He took a tentative step forward and clutched his bad hand. He rubbed at it nervously, trying to keep from reaching forward and clutching at hers, to keep from pulling her to him like something from a movie. He had one chance. He needed to get this right.

As he closed the distance between them, Jemma’s eyes grew wider, her mouth softening as she looked up at him through her lashes. Another step. Only a yard separated them now.

Jemma took a half-step towards him, hands moving closer, until she stutter-stopped, and clutched at the edges of her cardigan. “ _Fitz_?” she breathed.

He tilted his head to the side, his gaze drifting to the fullness of her lips as they shaped his name. Had it always sounded like this when she said it? Or was it new, this prayerful tone?

“ _Jemma_.” He wrenched his gaze back to her questing eyes. “Just - let me get this out. It’s, um. Hard- “ He made an impatient gesture with his bad hand, squeezing his eyes shut so he could focus on the words. “- sometimes, still, to uh, get the right words out.”

“ _Oh_.” Jemma mumbled, closing in on herself, tilting her head down, her hair curtaining her face.

“No!” Fitz reached out, grabbing her hand and softening, “No, Jemma, that’s not - just, _please_?” 

She felt taken aback by the tenderness of his gaze. Nodding, her eyes slid briefly to his tongue, darting out to moisten his lips.

“You know how I feel about you. Nothing’s changed for me. I don’t know if it ever will.” He stared at their clasped hands and gave hers a squeeze, hearing her gasp, wetly.

He risked a glance to her face, and gulped. The way she gazed at him - warm and dark, her eyes pin-pricked with light, so full of undisguised adoration and gratefulness, her lip quivering…

Before he could reason himself out of it, he lifted her hand up, pressing his lips slowly and softly to the cool skin of her knuckles. His eyes stayed steady on hers, watching as they grew like saucers, her mouth pressing tightly together, holding back emotion.

He took a deep breath and ran his thumb over her knuckles, chasing the feeling of his lips with another that sent shivers up her spine.

“I _know_ , Jemma,” he said, suddenly piercing the full silence between them, pregnant with possibilities. “I _know_ you feel the same. I overheard you talkin’ to Bobbi. I know how you feel about me. An’ I know - things are going to get complicated. But...”

Fitz reached out, pressing his fingertips to her temple, into her hairline, as his hand moved to cup her cheek. She melted into his touch, turning to press her face more fully against the heat of his palm, her lashes fluttering closed momentarily, drinking in the feel of him.

He bit back a small whimper at her tiny movement, the way she sought out more of his touch against her skin, and soldiered on. “One night. _Just one_. Just _ours_. You and me... Before everything changes. We can have what we both want, can’t we? It’s just one night…”

Unbidden, his feet pulled him closer, his shoulders rounding as he leaned down, the inches devolving to centimetres, the measure that distanced them fading to millimetres now, as he laid his stubbled cheek against her forehead, his voice dropping low. “Who could begrudge us tha’?”

A small sound escaped her lips, and then suddenly her fingertips were pressing into his jaw, furrowing into the hair that curled against the nape of his neck, turning his head towards her. She moved to the balls of her feet, raising on tip-toes to urgently press her lips to his mouth.

Fitz whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as his hands travelled, grappling for her waist, tangling in her hair. His parted lips seemed to beckon her, and she pressed tiny, fluttering kisses against his bottom lip.

Daringly, he angled her between his palms, capturing her top lip and then sweeping his tongue furtively inside her mouth. He felt the tip of her tongue tentative against his own, and something - some dam inside him - broke.

He pressed himself fully against her, feeling the swell of her pliant curves against him, the way her breath hitched, and the little moan eeking from her lips. He kissed her deeply. He kissed her like she was oxygen, like he could finally breathe, like they were surfacing, together.

They stumbled backwards, Jemma’s hands moving over him like she could chart a course, like she could plan where to touch, and how, and for how long, with urgency and need,  like it would be the only time, and she needed to learn all of him.

Fitz’s stomach dropped a thousand feet. He pressed one more kiss to her lips, and then brushed the tip of his nose against the bridge of hers, laying his forehead against her own.

“Don’t think about tha’,” he murmured into her skin, his mouth moving against her cheek, travelling slow, like honey, moist and hot to her jaw.  He reached the juncture of her throat, and scraped his teeth against it. Jemma sucked in a heady breath, shivering under his ministrations, her roaming hands digging against his shoulder and the small of his back.

“ _Fitz_.” She shuddered, her head lolling back in feeling, opening herself to him further. His jumper slid down the curve of her shoulder, and suddenly, he needed it gone, needed it decorating the floor - it was a necessary thing, to touch the skin of her arms, to drag his palms hotly against them and feel the gooseflesh pucker at the smallest of his touches, to know that it was him, Fitz, just him, that made her react this way - that Jemma Simmons, the love of his life, was giving herself to him like this. Just _him_.

In an animal movement, he captured her mouth again, pressing her lips open with his own, a growl rumbling from his throat when her tongue rushed to meet his. His growl turned to a whimper when she sucked his tongue between the rosebud of her lips.

Jemma’s hands worried at the buttons of his shirt as he steered them backwards toward the bed. She made a frustrated sound, and he kissed it away, tugging the hem from his trousers, breaking them apart to messily drag it over his back and toss it on the floor.

The moment he was free, her hand was at his neck, reeling him in closer. The back of her knees banged against the edge of the bed. Her balance lost, she fell forward against him. His feet shifted backwards, accommodating her weight, as his hands accidentally slid under her shirt. He exhaled, heavy and needful, his hands stilling as his eyes shifted to hers, questioning.

“Please, Fitz,”Jemma begged, her eyes black with need. She brushed her mouth against his collarbone. It was all the encouragement he needed, dragging the soft cotton up and over her back. She lifted her arms for him and leaned back, shivering breathily under his palms, watching his face, the way he flushed - one third embarrassment, two thirds lust.

His hands were splayed wide, spanning her ribs. They burned like a brand - the feel of them igniting the nerves under her skin. She was kerosene, burning up - a desirous whimper escaped her as she watched his eyes train with such intense focus on every inch and millimeter of slowly exposed skin.

Cool air hit her chest, and he gulped audibly, looking suddenly so young and new, so suddenly Fitz - the Fitz of her first memory, at the academy, eyes wide and adoring and awestruck with each new discovery - that an effervescent giggle bubbled up, trilling out of her. He flicked his gaze up, a Christmas morning smile stretched across his face, wide as a field. She grinned back so big her cheeks hurt.

“You’ve got _great_ , um…” He floundered, his hands stilling, palms pressing into her underarms, sneaking quick, guileless glances back at her breasts, encased in the world’s ugliest sports bra. His cheeks grew bright red, suddenly shy. “Um...Uh - boo- _no_ , um _t-_ I mean! Uh, b- _breasts_...” he managed, looking to the floor, his hands beginning to draw back.

“Oh _Fitz_.” Her voice was blurred affectionately at the edges, soft as watercolour. She brought her arms down to cup his face, surging up to meet his lips with hers, her mouth curling into a smile half-way through, knocking their teeth together awkwardly - happily. “Finish taking my shirt off,” she instructed tenderly, lowering her heels to the ground and lifting her arms again.

“...a-aand then...kiss me?” she asked, abruptly vulnerable - her brows a question-mark of uncertainty.

With a swift, smooth movement, the shirt was tugged from her arms. Her hair spilled against her shoulders, and his endless blue eyes found hers. “As many times as I can,” he breathed, splaying a hand against her hip and pulling her tight against him, slotting his mouth over hers, desperately.

Somehow, they found themselves sprawled over each other, moving like they knew the rise and fall, the pace and measure, like this was not their first time, and would not be their last. Fitz levered himself onto his forearm, one hand pushing the strap of her bra down her shoulder.

Jemma eagerly undid the clasp behind her, graceless but enthusiastic, her hair falling across her face. It earned her a snicker of amusement from Fitz, who pushed it behind an ear, and then worried the lobe between his teeth. Her breath stuttered in her chest as she pressed up into him, clutching at his bicep with a moan.

Hastily discarding the bra, she reached up, one handed, to cling at his neck, her eyes obsessed with the pinkness of his lips, the perfect, pillow curve of his bottom lip - she lapped at it in tiny, teasing licks until he gave, groaning far too quickly, enveloping her tongue with his mouth, sucking it deeply and pressing her into the mattress.

The rest of their clothes seemed to disappear, lost somewhere in between learning how the curve of a pert bottom filled a palm, how to make the other hiss just the right note, and the approximate temperature of the skin at a hip.

Their kiss broke with a gasp. He pushed up, hovering above her, drinking in her disheveled hair, her half-lidded eyes and swollen lips. Her hand drifted to his cheek, thumbing unconscious circles against it. He turned, kissed her palm, and brought himself to his knees, memorizing the constellations of freckles that speckled her chest. He bent forward, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her temple, and drew back, his hand caught in her hair. Slowly, he traced the tiny bone of her cheek and chin, drifting down the skin of her throat, into the valley of her breasts.

Jemma’s heart pounded so hard in her chest she was sure it would set off the earthquake monitors. Every vein in her seemed suddenly too small, too constricted, like her body couldn’t contain the swell of emotion, the deep, surging wave that crested, pushing up her throat and into her mouth, forming the words that crashed out, suddenly -

“I love you, Fitz.”

With a terrified yelp, she brought her hands to her mouth, trying to press the words back inside.

His hand stilled its exploration.

His eyes fixed on hers, blinking back tears. His lips pressed into a joyful, melancholy line as he nodded, looking down on her. A blanket of desperate, mournful sadness seemed to tuck into the dim light around them. He leaned into her, his eyes closing as he whispered against her lips. “I know. I know. I know. Oh, _Jem_.”

She swallowed his ‘I love you’s’. His ‘Only ever you’s.’ So he pressed them into her mouth with lips and tongue and teeth, as if she could subsist on them in the time to come. She pushed up to sitting, to meet him, hands sinking into the bed below her. She felt needy and urgent, arching into him as his arms wreathed around her back. She ground her breasts against his chest, her nipples hard pebbles, and he sighed at the sensation.

She needed it - needed to feel as much of him against as much of her as possible. Needed to be held by him like this, needed that perfect closeness. Jemma pulled herself across his lap, loving the startled sound of surprise as he flipped his legs over the edge of the bed; the deer-wide eyes that stared up at her, round and dark as midnight, looking at her like she was the sun, and he was Icarus, like he’d burn up to hold her.

She decided _this_ , this was how she liked him best - awestruck and open, blue eyes wide as skies, mouth parted in wonder, arms strong and hot against her back, chest broad and encompassing her front, and his cock, rigid and thick, pressed against the dripping wetness at her center.

Her hands cupped his face. She kissed him deep and full, undulating against him, rubbing her clit against the tip of his cock. He hissed, his eyes squeezing shut as he rode the sudden wave of pleasure. “I’ve got a condom,” he bit.

She shook her head. “IUD.”

She ground against him again, loving the rush of feeling as he slid slick between her lips, nudging the head of his cock against that little nub of feeling, like the hit of a drug. She could get addicted to this, she realized, and he wasn’t even inside her yet.

He whimpered desperately, his fingertips digging hard into her arms as he clung to her, panting and pushing against her without urging, planting his feet on the floor for added leverage and force.  “And - _ahh_!” she cried suddenly, as he began to pump rhythmically between her lips. “I’ve seen your blood panel - no STDs,” she declared in a rush, anticipating his next thrust. She burrowed her head into the junction of his neck and shoulder, biting the flesh there as she keened from the feeling coiling inside her.

“ _Jem_ ,” he moaned against her skin, kissing the underside of her breast, sliding his hands down to the swell of her bum, squeezing. He dragged messy, wet kisses against the skin of her areola. “I need to be-”

“- _Need_ you inside me,” she murmured, levering herself up against him, his arms steadying. She reached down.

“ _Fuck_ , Jem,” he swore when she touched his shaft, capturing her mouth in a plundering kiss as she maneuvered him against her entrance, her breath hitching as he stretched her inch by inch. He panted, his thighs shaking under her as he fought for stillness against the wet, perfect, enveloping heat.

It was slow, excruciatingly slow, as she adjusted to his size. Finally lowered fully, she squeezed her kegels experimentally, and he whimpered, casting his eyes to the ceiling, biting his lip hard. “ _Christ_ , Jem,” he cursed, looking back at her, realizing suddenly, that they were eye to eye, nose to nose. He sucked in a breath, shocked by the intimacy of it all - the connectedness. He was inside her, enveloped in her, holding her flush, body to body, soul to soul.

He kissed her softly. His lips and tongue formed the shape of her name like it was a secret he was sharing with her as they began to move, rocking and sliding against each other, his hands sweeping up and down the span of her back, splaying against the tulip swell of her swirling, undulating hips.

Their hitched, stop-start first-time rhythm, awkward and needful, eased as sweat began to bead. Fitz dragged his forehead down the side of Jemma’s face, her fingers digging furrows in his hair. He rested it in the crook of her neck, darting his tongue out experimentally to taste the salt against her skin, eliciting a heady, keening noise - tiny and immediate.  He lapped at the valley of her cleavage, ending in a wet, messy kiss against the swell of her breast, tilting his face up to look at her, working above him, panting. Her eyes were squeezed shut, mouth half-open, sounding little pleasure noises with every rise and fall, growing stronger and louder on each upward thrust of his cock. He grunted, gripping the globes of her ass, planting his feet square on the ground, toes curling in pleasure as he drove into her, making her squeak at the force of his movements.

She shifted her hips, her clit dragging against the long length of his cock as it disappeared inside her. Jemma sucked in a stuttering breath, her eyes flying open wide. She was so close - the slick push and pull of his cock inside her, that delicious pleasure-pain rooting deep within her, coupled with the wet drag of her clit against his length - it was so much - she cried out suddenly, nearly there, the seed bursting into fullness, beginning to bloom.

She clutched blindly at him, her nails raising red tracks he’d feel the next day, and whimpered, “Fitz!” pleadingly.

His eyes found hers, blue and shining, a vulnerable sort of pride blazing out from behind the blown pupils. He had brought her to the precipice. _His_ cock, _his_ hands, _his_ lips - _his_ love - _him_. Little Leo Fitz had brought beautiful, goddess-like Jemma Simmons to the edge of orgasm, begging him to fall into the abyss with her. Together or not at all, he thought, irrationally, plunging up into her swiftly, arms pulling her tightly to him, lips crashing on hers as he gave into every feeling, every exultant sensation, their rhythm breaking in a disjointed sprint towards that passionate, death-defying end.

“ _Fitz_!” The name blossomed on her tongue, her back arching, going rigid, grinding her pelvis hard against his just-right, r _ight-there_ -

“ _Unghhh!_ ” he grunted. “ _Jemma!_ ” His voice broke against her neck, wet and hot and eking out of him in croaks and gasps and groans as he came, shattering into pieces around her, arms going slack. His breath escaped, eddying against her neck. She shuddered and shook and shivered, a mess of movement, like petals in a timelapse, her orgasm turning her into a rose, beautiful and loose-limbed as it faded, leaving her collapsed and panting against his chest.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he breathed, lifting her chin to stare deeply into her eyes. “An’ no matter wha’ happens, _I am_ _in love_ _with you_.” His brogue was thick with emotion, his eyes filling with tears.

Jemma blinked, biting her lip and nodding. Her eyes were suddenly glassy, and she palmed his cheek, curling into his side quietly. “Hold me?” she asked.

“Forever,” he answered, as they shifted under the covers, back to front.

“I wish you could,” she said, her voice small with despair.

They pulled the thin sheets and blankets up to their chins.  Fitz enfolded Jemma in his arms like he was the shore and she was the tide, about to drift out to sea. It washed over them, starting at their toes, the pensive, somber recollection of what tomorrow would bring, what their lives might hold, the way things would change, and how honour and dignity and duty would make them islands from each other - how the tectonic plates of their lives would shift and float them apart.

Who knew for how long.

The night suddenly seemed like an egg-timer to Fitz, like sand, slipping through his fingers. Maybe she’d been right after all with her planning and her deliberateness - trying to experience everything she could of him, to memorize and map him, until the circadian cycle clocks brightened with simulated dawn.

She was right. But so was he. They always balanced.

He took a deep breath of her scent, burying his nose in her hair as his hand, rubbing lazy, unconscious circles over her lower belly, descended between the thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs.

Their love-making (because it _was_ that, if anything deserved the term, it was _that_ \- they shaped it between them, their love, forming and molding it with moans and stifled cries and wept tears, etching into skin and digging it under their nails, making it real, making it whole, creating it for their memories, a golden moment - something to treasure) was languorous and sensual, full with a kind of wistful beauty, knowing that this time together may be their only chance, their only one.

Timing had never been their strong suit, after all.

In the small hours of morning, exhaustion settled into their bones. The sheets had pulled into a nest, growing cool with the sweat from their bodies. Fitz and Jemma panted heavily with exertion, filling the air around them with post-coital echoes.

Fitz went to shift away, to pull his spent cock from her crevice. In a swift motion, Jemma stretched her arm behind her, nails pressing sharply into the juncture of his ass and thigh as they lay tangled, the long line of his lean form pressed heavily against the fluid curves and swells of her back, her round ass against his pelvis, his dick still hard inside her. “ _Stay_ ,” she murmured, beseeching.

Fitz slid a little closer, angling his pelvis higher, ensheathing himself fully in her warmth. She expelled a barely-audible sigh.

“Yeah. Okay.” he agreed, quiet.

They could be apart tomorrow. Tomorrow, Fitz and Simmons. But here, now, as they slept, fused together, they were _Fitzsimmons_ , and they were whole.

**  
  
  
**


	3. I love you as one loves certain obscure things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma and Fitz journey to the Blue Planet to rescue Will, and try to deal with the fallout of the previous night's decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Folks!!! Look at me, posting on Monday, as promised! *pats self on the back for keeping to a schedule*
> 
> Big shout out to @notthestupidcatagain for always being up for a read through, her commentary GIVES ME LIFE! And of course, a big thanks to my super-busy beta, @notapepper, who always manages to make time to read through a chapter and make sure my grammar, capitals, and commas are all good to go! (She's the reason this thing is readable, not gonna lie..)

* * *

 

The air was still and stale and hot and blue.

Jemma squeezed her eyes shut, and sucked in a deep, determined breath. She thought she’d hate blue by now.

Blue skies.

Blue oceans.

Blue planets.

Blue was the colour of her despair. Blue was the colour of her dread. But it was also the colour of Fitz’s eyes, and so, stubbornly, it remained her favourite.

She blinked in the dark cerulean emptiness, her eyesight adjusting. She straightened her pack, and double-checked the map against the terrain. With a business-like nod, she motioned them forward.

Mack gave a long-suffering sigh, but trudged on behind them.

* * *

 

The wind had picked up, swirling sand in a maelstrom around them when they stumbled across Will’s prone form, mere feet from the trap door to the bunker.

“I - You can’t be…” He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, damming back the emotion that twisted it. “You’re not real. It’s -”

“ _Shhh, shhh_ ,” Jemma cooed, tears streaming down her face as she fell to her knees in front of him, rapidly backing away from her, like she was a danger to him, “I _am_ real. I swear -”

Jemma grabbed his hand as he recoiled. “ _See_? Real,” she declared softly, squeezing his hand between both of hers.

A debilitating sob wracked through his wide shoulders, shaking loose a wounded cry. “I _never-_ ! _I never thought I’d see you again._..” his voice scraped out painfully.

In a heavy, clumsy movement, he careened into her chest, pulling her to him like a life raft, like she could buoy him, if he held onto her tight enough, like she could bring the castaway to shore.

“You were free - _why_? _Why’d you-_?” He hiccupped, his parched lips twisting into a grimace as he clung to her like a child.

“Because you were here.” Jemma said with a clipped finality, running a soothing hand against his scalp as he shook , sobbing, against her.

Their audience tensed in the silence of the shared moment, feeling as though they were spying. Jemma cleared her throat and brushed away tears. With a concentrated nod, she cast her eyes to her compatriots, and said, “Alright. Let’s move.”

Will had pulled himself together during their trek. He limped badly, trailing after her, his eyes adoring, like a lumbering puppy, as they neared the open portal.

Fitz tried to look anywhere but them. It was impossible. There was nothing else here to look at, and he’d lost her to this place once. He couldn’t let it happen again.

“What happened?” he heard Jemma ask, trying to hide the guilt that threaded through her tone.

“Fell down a dune the last time It showed up...when you left.” Will shrugged. “Flying’s my specialty, Professor. Not setting bones.” He turned to Jemma, smiled wryly, and then shoved his hands in the pockets of his ragged space suit.

Fitz felt Jemma’s recoil more than he saw it, felt the snap of her neck, the injured set of her mouth.

“No. I know.” Jemma’s shoulders shrunk apologetically. “But... but- we’re nearly there, and at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ we’ll fix you right up,” she said with a forceful brightness, swinging her face towards her fellow survivor, smile beaming.

It was held too tight on her cheeks, Fitz noticed. It looked like a grimace. But god did it still hurt. It lanced through him like a javelin, to see her turn that smile, that care, that singular beam of protection and comfort to some other man, to someone else. To someone not him.

Somewhere in him, logic suggested he should be pleased. Pleased that she hadn’t felt him too weak for this, that she knew he was strong enough to do this for her. That he wasn’t so easily broken,  that he didn’t need her coddling, didn’t need her to handle him with kid-gloves. But God, he wished he didn’t have to be here for this.

He felt something tug his glance, and his eyes fixed on hers.

Will walked past her, trudging on, limping and weak, shambling towards the portal, where it rippled silver in the base of a dune.

Her gaze was piercing and strained and convicted, but he held it.

What had the Asgardian said the inscription had translated to? Death by punishment?

Maybe, Fitz thought, watching, hanging a few feet back, as Will fearfully reached for Jemma’s arm with both hands, calling out her name questioningly as he stepped into the portal barrier - calling for her.

She wrenched her gaze from Fitz’s, her brows furrowing in distress as she turned to Will, her hand dragged through the barrier by him, following inches behind, protectively.

Maybe it was a kind of death. A kind of punishment.

Fitz hit the concrete of the Playground floor with a whooshing breath, struggling for air, disoriented.

“Welcome back, Mr. Daniels. You’re home.” Coulson announced.

“ _Earth_?” The dusty astronaut’s voice broke, like a terracotta warrior taken too ungently from the grave. He fractured, ruined, onto the floor, sobbing with abandon, until suddenly, he wasn’t sobbing any more - his heaving breathes changed, pulling something up from the depths. Jemma struggled to hold him in her arms as he began to vomit, expelling black, oily bile fluids against her tac vest.

Terror flashed across her face. “Will, no, _no_ -”

“-Don’t wanna die here, not now,” he gasped, pushing away from her, more liquid retching from his gut.

Determination settled like a mask on her features, and she shook her head ‘no’. She shot her gaze up to Bobbi, who was watching, helpless. “It’s his organs, they’re not adjusting quick enough - they’re failing, Bobbi - get the med bay - he’s been there 14 years -”

“On it.” Bobbi ran out of the room, Mack and Daisy at her heels.

“-Saved you - once,” Will managed, in between heaves, “-Your t-turn, now?” he chuckled weakly. Trying to be brave and put on a good face, just as his shaking arms finally spilled him into the puddled sick.

Jemma scrambled forward, moving his body into the recovery position, unconcerned for the bodily fluids pooling around her. “Quite right. It’s _my_ turn. _My turn_ to save _you_.”

Tears fell from her eyes.

It was a kind of death, a kind of punishment. And it had chosen her, and it had rode across the universe on her back, and she’d be damned if she didn’t bear every single lash. She owed it to him.

****  
  


* * *

 

Will’s organs seemed to take turns failing. When it was his liver’s turn, the second time, his pallor had taken on a yellow hue, like self-tanner gone wrong, and for a day, Bobbi had a padre on speed-dial.

Jemma held her back, shouting, “Not _yet_! _Not yet_! Just one more hour! He was there _14 years_! You can give him one more _bloody_ hour!”

For three days, she didn’t sleep. She hovered around his decompression chamber the first night. His bed the second, and was pushed, screaming, out of the med bay, on the third, when he coded for the last time.

She’d collapsed outside the glass walls, folded in on herself, crying into her knees and arms, until the all-clear sounded.

Fitz didn’t see it first hand. Couldn’t. It was for the best, really. She was already a mess. He couldn’t add to it - couldn’t complicate her feelings further.

He hadn’t slept much either, for different reasons, and, of course, the same ones. Instead, he ghosted about the kitchen, reading engineering journals he’d meant to catch up on months ago, and drifted through the lab, white as a sheet.

They seemed to take shifts, watching them. In the lab, Bobbi would stay in a four foot radius, and have convenient phone conversations on her mobile about Jemma’s condition. In the kitchen, Hunter would come in, and very purposefully make three cups of tea, and ask, offhand, “Simmons is milky tea, yeah?”

On the third night, he slid one, sugar dotting the rim, across the table to Fitz. “She’s holding up. He’s on the mend, finally.” And then, with a commiserating nod at Fitz’s thanks, held the other two aloft. “Best get this to her then, mate... Hang in there.”

He couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand to see her, staring so desperately down at his bedside, her face etched with pain, her under-eyes so dark and purple, her smile so strained when she looked down at Will, who looked up at her, pallid and adoring, like she was a river, a stream, and he’d drink her all up.

He saw the way she hovered, swallowed by her lab coat, running tests and prescribing fluids and injecting medication, and he knew she’d pour herself into this - let herself be consumed.

There was no room for him here. Not right now. Maybe never again.

It was two weeks after Will was back on Earth that Fitz went to Coulson, begging for a mission.  
  


* * *

 

“There is something you could do. I was going to assign it to Hunter, but it’d be better with two eyes on the job.” Coulson pulled something up on his tablet, and passed it to Fitz. “It’s low-risk, but it's tedious - surveillance. We’ve got intel that Hydra’s got some goods moving through the border town of -”

“I’ll take it,” Fitz said, cutting him off.

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “Alright…”

“When do we leave?”

Coulson tapped at the screen a few times, swiping. “At 1900 hours.”

“Plenty of time to pack, then,” Fitz muttered, heading straight for the door. He turned back, remembering himself. “Thank you, sir.”

Coulson smiled. It was rueful and fond and understanding. “Any time, Agent Fitz.”

When Fitz jogged up the ramp into the jump jet at 18:55, he caught her out of the corner of his eye, standing alone and desolate by a pile of crates, her thumbs flying across her phone screen.

Something buzzed in his back pocket. She looked up. Pausing in the ramp, he pulled out his cell. It buzzed again.

[Message Simmons: I’m sorry]

[Message Simmons: Please]

He tapped out a reply as the cargo bay doors descended, blocking her scared, bleak eyes from his view, thankfully. It would be too hard to do this if he had to see her.

[Message Fitz: It won’t be forever]

[Message Simmons: I meant what I said - please...just don’t forget.]

Fitz sucked in a shaky breath, coughing as he strapped in to cover the tears welling in his throat.

[Message Fitz: I know.]

[Message Fitz: I’ll always remember.]

****  
  



	4. secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz and Jemma both try to move on, following their fateful night together. It doesn't exactly work as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You want angst? You got it.
> 
> Also, if you like the story, please comment! If you hate it, also comment! It's basically just really nice to get comments - it's how us fanfic writers know we're doing okay, and that people like our stuff (or hate our stuff)!

* * *

 

Her name was a stone that anchored his tongue, thick with drink and the sharp edges of her - the endless taste of her that he couldn’t seem to numb, no matter how many scotches he downed, sitting in the shady corner booth of the ramshackle pub.

Outside the window, the snow fell like sifted sugar. Fitz squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image that sweetness conjured - the way her lips pressed hot and moist against his chest, her nails tracking along the panel of his ribs as she kissed her way down his stomach, past the thin trail of hair, down to the thatch of golden curls at the juncture of his thighs. He gulped down a scalding mouthful. It was Coulson’s dime, and Hunter had taken one look at him and waved for the top-shelf.

The lagavulin in his glass was nearing empty for the fifth time that night. Hunter gave him a small, commiserating smile, and tipped the lip of the bottle into his tumbler, spilling the amber liquid around the sides.

“Whoops,” he mumbled, wiping the spot from the table with the edge of a sleeve.

With a bleary, wry pull of his lips, he continued, “Birds, mate. They don’ _understand_. They fink i’s just them, aye? Jus’ _them_ wiv their feelin’s an’ their romance, and they fink blokes ain’t got nuffin in their chest but rocks and football scores, aye? But i’s _not true_ \- we’re single-minded, us. We get caught up in ‘em - the shape and the scent and the feel of ‘em, and we’re like birds, see - them flyin’ ones, not lady birds, right? -Because mate, we build our lives like a nest around’em. Starts out little twigs, just nuffin big, _innit_? But the more we fink about’em, the more twigs we pile on, until, suddenly, the shape of ‘em, it’s a nest we fly home to, innit? It’s the space we curl up in - they’re home more‘n a house or a bed. And when they leave, bruv, it’s not a person-shaped hole, is it? It’s like a _life-shaped one_ \- it’s shaped like a _home_ and a _future_ and a _world_ we’ve built around’em, just like an empty pile of sticks.”

Hunter poured himself a few fingers of the scotch, took a sip, and finished. “They don’ fink we love like they do. Don’t fink we’ve got hearts, _aye_? But - an’ this is my opinion - _our_ hearts - yours and mine, leastways - they’s big as any of ‘em.”

He took another sip. “I miss Bob,” he mumbled, stumbling out of the booth, fumbling with his phone.

When nothing untoward happened to pass through the tiny hotel bar for three days, Fitz figured it out. It wasn’t a mission - not in the espionage sense.

“Yes, Agent Fitz?” Coulson answered, sounding sleepy. It was two in the morning back at the playground, Fitz thought foggily, through the scotch-clouded haze of his brain.

“‘S not really a mission, sir,” he slurred, fighting with the weight and throw of his drunken body as he tried to lean nonchalantly against the outside pine-panelling of the tiny hotel bar. There was no one around, and Coulson wasn’t there to see him, but pretending to be nonchalant made him feel that way, and so, when his hand finally connected to the freezing wood, and one foot managed to cross over the other with a clack against the ice, he gave himself a small, pleased smile.

“Not exactly, no,” Coulson answered.

“‘S a lad’s weeken’, sir?” he questioned, thinking of the credit card bill. He quickly calculated the conversion rate between the Canadian dollar and the American, and was grateful, momentarily, for the small recession facing their northern neighbour. “‘Cause I could’ave handled a real mission, sir.”

“No offense, Agent Fitz, but I beg to differ.”

“ _Why_?” Fitz bit, suddenly angry, his voice wobbly with accusation. Cursing, he pitched himself off the side of the pine-panelling, and brushed his hasty tears away. “I mean, why sir?”

“...Because you’re emotionally compromised,” Coulson said with a sigh. Fitz could almost hear the older man dragging his palm down his face in exasperation. “Don’t take it personally.”

FItz started sputtering into the phone, thrusting his hand into his armpit for warmth.

“And I thought you could use the break. And the booze. Fury did it for me once,” Coulson recounted, fondness in his tone.

“When?” Fitz asked, alcohol piquing his curiosity.

“After Melinda.”

“-Wait, _May_?! You and _Agent May_?!”

“It was a long time ago...and for the best. For us, at least.” Coulson sighed wistfully. Fitz wouldn’t remember it when he sobered up, and it was a lifetime ago. A nostalgic smile ghosted over the older man’s face.

“Goodnight, Agent Fitz.” He added, smiling ruefully into the phone, “Don’t let Hunter run up too high a tab.”

“Yes sir. And goodnight.” Awkwardly he hung up the phone, stuffing it in his pocket as he walked under the bar’s sign. It said _The Lost and Found_. It seemed apt.

When he slid onto the cracked leather bench, he grabbed the near-empty bottle of scotch (Oban, this time - a beauty, left forgotten and dusty, just waiting, it seemed, for him to find it) and waved Hunter back to the booth.

“- love you. Don’t die out there,” he finished, swiftly ending his call to Bobbi and slipping into the seat across from Fitz.

Tipping out the last of the liquid into their respective glasses, Fitz looked solemnly at Hunter. He held his tumbler aloft, and thought about Coulson and May.

He thought about Jemma. Thought about her eyes, pin-pricked with light when she looked at him, like the universe was staring back at him. Thought about the way she was tattooed onto him, into him. Something inescapable.

“Let’s drink. ‘S drink to the lost.”

“Y’know wha’ they say,bruv. Be’er to’ve loved an’ lost, than never to’ve loved a’ all.”

Fitz smiled a wry half-smile, red-eyed. Shakespeare never did love Jemma Simmons.   
  


* * *

 

When he had been released from the med-bay, two weeks and seven hours from his return to Earth, and two weeks and nine and half hours from his return into Jemma Simmons’ life, Will Daniels had been introduced to his new room.

It was sparse, impersonal. He was free to make it his own - to hang pictures, or to add momentos, she had told him, leading him carefully by the hand, taking him to every dark corner of the brick box, showing him that there was nothing lurking in the shadows. He nodded, hearing everything, but clearly not taking it in.

She brought him over to the bed. “You can sleep here, if you like,” she told him, more to fill the uncanny silence than anything. It was unnerving to see his uncomprehending eyes - like he couldn’t understand the purpose of it, couldn’t associate it with real.

“I didn’t at first,” she admitted quietly. “Everything was too soft. I made sure to requisition a harder mattress for you from the quartermaster. The pillows are thin too - just like - like...there.” She ended with a forced cough.

She spent a few more minutes showing him the room, where he could put his new clothes, how to dim the bulbs until things were dark enough for his light-sensitive eyes. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said with a brief smile. “I’ll come back to get you tomorrow morning, for your surgery.”

“Stay?” he pleaded, his eyebrows furrowing, wringing his hands - trying to hide it.

She smiled kindly. Forcefully. Nodding, Jemma said, “Of course.”

She made sure he was comfortable under the covers, and then pulled up the armchair, curling into it. Her eyes were beginning to droop closed when his hand noosed itself around her wrist, and pulled her towards the bed.

“No, with me,” he clarified. “Just...let me hold you. It’s easier to fall asleep that way...I know it's real. When you’re beside me.” His eyes were earnest, and there was something imploring about his small smile.

Jemma smoothed a hand over his badly cut hair. Someone would have to see to that soon. With a nod, she said nothing, but slipped into bed beside him.

After that first night, she extricated herself to the chair, and then the couch. She claimed he needed to acclimatize to the new environs, needed to learn to cope and feel safety on his own. Then, after Fitz and Hunter returned from their mission, smelling faintly like alcohol, she began spending long hours in the lab, until late at night, going to her own bunk, thankful for the pretense and trying to sleep through the night.

It didn’t work.

Early on in his time at the playground, Will’s PTSD began to manifest in night terrors.

Even with his ankle rebroken and reset, strapped into a clunky plastic cast, he ended up tearing down the halls screaming for her more often than not, and for everyone’s sake, Jemma wound up sleeping in his room most of the time. She felt the anguished burn of Fitz eyes boring into her back every time she talked Will to wakefulness - the only one outside of Mack who seemed unafraid of the man’s bearlike rages.

In his PTSD-fueled nightmares, he was a berserker - smashing glass cases and bellowing in pain and terror about some monstrous thing - following him, out to get him, out to kill him, and he struck out at her, trying to make her understand.

Daisy had to knock him to the floor twice, the earthquake klaxon blaring as she breathed heavily, her hands outstretched, watching the cinderblock dust settle around Will’s whimpering form.

“He wouldn’t have - I promise,” Jemma apologized profusely, her face distressed, running to him, clutching his arm and leveraging him to standing, taking so much of his weight on her shoulders that she buckled, stubbornly waving off everyone but Mack, who assisted her in bringing Will back to his room. As they moved, her eyes swam with tears. Her mouth was a frown between her words of reassurance to the blinking, terrified man draped across her shoulders.

“He’s not a bad man. He’s just - recovering. Please,” she begged as she passed Daisy’s concerned face. “Please understand.”

Even struggling under Will’s weight, Jemma pressed a comforting hand to her friend’s arm, trying to ease the discomfort written across her face.

The nightmares began to even out. Usually she moved onto the floor or the couch in the middle of the night, feeling like she was suffocating under the weight of him holding her down, like 90 feet of ocean pressing on top of her, trying to keep her from ever surfacing.

One month, ten hours, and twenty-seven minutes into Will’s tenure at the playground, Jemma Simmons stared at the shadowy popcorn ceiling of his bunk. It had been a bad night. He’d woken twice, twisting in the sheets and calling for her. Dutifully, she slid in beside him, as far to the edge of the bed as she could get without appearing cold.

Resting her hand against her abdomen, just above her mons, she thinks about them. Thinks about who they would have been. Sees their tiny little hands articulating shapes, holding out blocks, reaching for her - for him, his curls grown wild in fatherhood, too busy for a trim.

Like most women, she has already named them in her mind - the children she would have. She already knows their faces in her mind's’ eye. They take after their father, with their corkscrew curls and little pink mouths, so quick to grin.

There are two of them. At least two. The boy, his sandy hair a touch ginger, is cast with his father’s handsome features. He has a slim face and solemn dark eyes. His name would be Archibald Malcolm Fitzsimmons - After Fitz’s grandfather, and father, respectively.

Her Archie would like stars, she thinks. She would gift him her old telescope, from her father, and she would tell him about planets and galaxies, and how they had saved her from boredom and scoliosis. She would not tell him about how she came to fear them, for a time. Nor about how she came to trust that no matter the light-years that separated them, his father would always come for her. She runs her fingertips over her flat stomach, blinking away tears. No, she would not tell him that. She would not tell him anything, really.

The other, she would be a chubby little thing, glowing with health. Rosy-cheeked and dark-haired, with shocking blue eyes - like a little Snow White, getting into everything. She would be a handful, inquisitive, always getting into trouble. She would be Daisy’s favourite - maybe she’d take after her aunt, and be a CS wiz. Or perhaps a virologist. Or maybe she would be completely different - maybe a poet, crafting words like DNA sequences, creating new life, shaping it to fit.

Jemma ran her hand up to her sternum, and then back down, cupping it against the phantom bump. She would have named her Louisa, after her mum. Margaret - Fitz would have allowed it for a middle name, after Peggy Carter. They’d fight over her nickname, of course. Fitz would vie for Lulu, she for Weezy, but it would probably be Mack that won out in the end - ZeeZee Top, or something else purely American, she thought, wistful and nostalgic for a future she could no longer see clearly.

Will shifted beside her, and she slid into the dip that formed, trying to roll out of it, while his sleep-slack arm pulled at her, like she was some teddybear, half-stuffed, easily dragged against him.

She struggled to roll onto her side, to put some distance between them, hating how her skin crawled when against his.

Tears spilled out onto the pillow beside her. She let herself cry sometimes, silently, her shoulders shaking, her sobs squeezing at her insides. Will never woke against her shuddering.

Jemma sucked in deep breaths, as quiet as possible, and hugged her stomach. She curled foetal in on herself, her face ugly in her misery, as she mourned for her little life, tucked away in her imagination. Her mouth pulled, unpretty, to think of the babies she would never hold, the little babbling voices she would never learn to translate, the late mornings in a little stone cottage tucked away in the Perthshire countryside, clutching her little ones to her chest, while the man she loved held them all protectively in the strength of his arms, snoring loudly, obstinately Scottish, even in sleep.

Her mouth pulled into a pained smile at that, and she curled tighter, pressing her face into the pillow to stifle her sobs, her fingers digging painfully into her abdomen. She’d never feel the way they kicked inside her. Never know the accent they spoke with, never hear them call Fitz Daddy. Never be called Mummy.

With Will’s arm like a noose around her, she mourned, heartbroken, for the children she would never know, and for the one man she could never seem to let go of, the one man she missed so deeply it left a gaping wound in her life, bloody-edged, where he should be.  
  


* * *

 

Fitz rarely slept, these days. When he did, it was lightly, and easily broken. So it was not a surprise to him when the padding of bare feet outside his door woke him, blinking.

What was a surprise, however, was how they paused, casting a long shadow under the crack of the door as they stuttered to a stop, then stood, anxiously facing his door, and then paced away, only to return a half-minute later.

This lasted for two minutes, that first night. He looked at his watch, on the nightstand, timing it out, waiting for her to knock - trying to will it, trying to use the psychic connection everyone claimed they had.

He heard the slide of Jemma’s palm against the wood grain. Heard her murmur something, before she turned swiftly, abruptly walking away, towards the kitchen, and away from Will’s bunk.

“ _I love you too_ ,” he whispered at her retreating footsteps.

The second night, watching her abrupt retreat, he threw the covers off. This wouldn’t do. It had been foolish of them, absolutely foolish of them, to think it would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, big thanks to the world's most wonderful betas, @notapepper and @notthestupidcatagain, for fixing my capitalization, grammar, and syntax issues, and for reading along and letting me know what they thought!


	5. I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the second night, Fitz follows Jemma out into the kitchen, and comes to some realizations about their past together. Meanwhile, complications with Will cause some trouble in the lab, which in turn, cause more complications between Will and Jemma's relationship.

 

* * *

 

The world seemed smaller to Fitz, somehow. It always did in the wee hours of morning, when not even the most diligent specialist was in the training room, when the circadian cycle clocks left the lights a hair’s breadth above pitch-black.

A diffuse light glowed from the kitchen at the end of the hall. Her bare feet shuffled slowly against the floor, giving away her sleepiness. He could make out a tiny melody, mumbled and a bit off-key.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in recognition, and he stilled, leaning against the door jamb and watching her putter with the kettle and a mug. Her fingers played absently with the tea-tag while she misremembered and half-forgot the words, humming through them instead.

_“HmmmMmmm a river so loo-oong...teach my feet to fly-y away...mmmMmm mmm...oh I wish I had a river I could skate awaaaay on….”_

He felt a fondness swell, unbidden in his chest, like it was pressing against the cage of his ribs, like he would just burst with it. Her arms looked so thin still, swallowed up by her academy t-shirt. He wondered, absently, when she’d been eating, or if she’d even had time.

Jemma gave a shaky little breath, softly closing the cupboard door and drawing out the the sugar jar. She curled it into her chest instead of placing it on the counter, and continued singing.

“ _I made my baby cry...He tried hard to help me, you know, he put me at ease and he loved me so naughty, he made me weak in the knees. HHhhmmmMMmmmm mmm Oh, I wish I had a river…. I could skate away on…_ ”

She sounded so sad, and looked so small and lonesome, hovering by the stove-light. Her shoulders had drooped around her - she looked like a feather could knock her over.

Fitz remembered the last time she looked that way. It had been a night not so unlike this one, somewhere at the start of his recovery, after the hospital, after their first dinner - he’d been so grumpy and crabby - snapping at every loose word, every attempt at coddling. He has been so ill-at-ease with himself, and his mind, and his skin, so injured by her doting concern.

She’d walked him to his room, and he’d slammed the door. Fitz grimaced at the memory. He’d knocked off everything on his dresser, and paced for a good few minutes, until the frustration had ebbed. He’d been such a little shite, and he’d gone to her room to apologize for his behaviour (he’d taken a good half-hour to write down three sentences, which had further annoyed him, and thus, had the effect of him tipping his laundry basket onto the floor and kicking the contents around until his room resembled his dorm at the academy, before he calmed enough to find her), but she hadn’t been there. He’d come upon her then, humming Joni Mitchell to herself, just like this, looking so weary. Just like this.

He’d been so struck with the depth of her sadness then - it had battered his already flagging confidence, confirmed his mounting self-doubt, and was enough to send him spinning on his heel, away from her, crumpling his apology in his hand.

The kettle began to whistle, and in a startled movement, as if she had been far away, her hand skittered over to it, pouring the water into her mug, and sliding it onto the other burner. Jemma sang absently, “ _I'm so hard to handle , I'm selfish and I'm sad, Now I've gone and lost the best baby that I ever had…..Hmm mmm I wish I had a river I could skate away on…_ ”

Fitz started forward at the way she sang those words - How had he missed it?

Had he just been so wrapped up in his own troubles? Had he been nursing his own wounds so much that he hadn’t caught it? Had she been so good at burying it? Masking it with a sureness and stubbornness that would bely any concern?

How had he not detected the brittleness in her hands? The self-censure lacing her tone? The disgusted pull of her mouth as she frowned?

Jemma brought a hand to her face, pressing the heel of her palm against her eyes. Fitz spotted a glimmer of wetness in the light, just before she tilted, minisculely, just far enough to hide the side of her face with her unkempt hair. She cleared her throat, and pretended to be rubbing sleep from her eyes, instead of the tears he knew were there. How often had she cried lately?

“Fitz - hi. I’m sorry about the kettle. I’ve got my tea now, so I’ll…” she made a motion for the door.

She always seemed to know just the how far to move to hide, to slip her emotions past, unnoticed. How to angle her chin, how to smile just wide enough that no one questioned why it didn’t reach her eyes. When to put her hands on something so their trembling wasn’t so evident - when to stop talking, so her voice wouldn’t break.

“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice a question. His brows raised high, entreating. “You can stay.”

He grabbed for her hand as she tried to move past him. “I’d like it if you did.”

Jemma looked up through her lashes at him. “You would?”

“I know I’ve been, erm..a bit -”

“You were on a mission and  the lab - it’s -”

“-You’ve been handling a lot at the lab and -”

“- _completely_ understandable -”

“- with Will…” Fitz finished lamely, “and everything…”

Jemma blinked and pulled her hand away, gulping. She slid her tea onto the counter, placing her hands into her pockets, secretly. Fitz could see the tension jumping across her tendons, and knew she was clenching her fists to still their anxious quiver. He’d been _so_ blind.

After a second, Jemma reached up and pushed some hair behind her ears, daring to look at him quickly, before looking back down. Emotion warred in her eyes - something like guilt and yearning, something desperate and far. “That’s - it’s _so_ kind of you. But you don’t need - _I_ -”

“I know I don’t,” Fitz interrupted her nervous stammer, and stepped closer. God, he wanted to hold her. Wanted her to know that he saw how alone she felt, wanted to let her know that she wasn’t alone, didn’t have to be, that he could be there for her, just as she was always there for everyone else. “But I _want_ to. With Garner - there’s not, well - y’haven’t had anyone to really talk to. An’ I’m _sorry_ , Jemma, because I’ve not been -”

“No, _please_ , don’t apologize. I couldn’t - I _don’t_...” She trailed off, turning away slightly, as if it was too much to stand up against, to face down without her walls buckling. “I didn’t expect you to even speak to me, if I’m honest,” she said, her voice a breathy rattle, as she tried to give a small laugh. It came out humourless and pained. “Not that I would have blamed you.”

Fitz stuttered forward, his hands reaching for her while she turned away completely, putting her back to him -

“It’s my fault - _all_ of this. It’s on _me_.” Her voice faded into a tragic, high whisper.

She sucked in a deep breath, holding it tight in the upper part of her lungs, hoping that it would expand so much it would stop the feeling of her emotions shaking her castle walls from the inside. He didn’t need to know - It wasn’t fair to him, to put her sadness out for him to see, wasn’t kind. She was being selfish. As usual.

Jemma swallowed at the thickness in her throat, and quietly brought her arms around her waist, trying to buttress herself from the sobs that she could feel, storming the walls inside her, trying to knock her down, double her over - anywhere but here. She’d been so stupid, to give into her tears as much as she had been - it’d been making her weak, making her forget how to put them away, making her forget how to be strong -

Suddenly, long fingered hands pressed warmth into her hips, drawing her backwards, softly.

“No- that’s not true. _Never_ ,” Fitz insisted, his arms coming around her, dragging heat against her abdomen, stepping tentatively into her back, lining their angles and planes with the warmth between them.

He couldn’t help it, once her chest stuttered and heaved, when she stifled a quiet wail with the back of her hand. He couldn’t help the way he pulled her closer, the way he stroked her hair with the side of his face, with the way his fingers burrowed into the soft skin of her belly, hugging her to him, pulling her inside the safety of his arms, the tiny shelter of his heart, pulling her back to where she belonged.

“Jemma, oh _sweetheart_ , oh _love_ , none of this - _none_ \- is your fault. You don’t have to shoulder this alone.” He murmured against the side of her face, his moist breath eddying like a steadying current against her temple and the shell of her ear.

With a shuddering sigh, she nodded, feeling a tiny, strange thrill at the feel of his face against her own, once more. She sagged back against him in relief, her hand finding his and squeezing it.

With a deep, desirous breath, he stared down at her small, fine fingers, lacing purposefully with his, in the shadowy kitchen. He thumbed circles against the small bones that rested against his. He bit back a needy whimper, shifting against the full press of her against his front, and instead, with a promise, said, “You’re _so_ strong...an’ for wha’ it’s worth - I’m _here_.”

She stuttered out a little, joyful laugh, and shifted in his arms, turning in tiny, incremental movements.

“...An’ it’s not forever,” he finished.

Her eyes found his, undisguised adoration shining like a beacon in the darkened kitchen. They were a lighthouse, the promise of a shore, steering his lips like a course, drawing him from where he’d been stranded and alone, just like her, out to sea.

No man, they say, is an island.

With a small yearning intake of breath, her eyes drifted to his lips. He whimpered, clutching her tightly, tilting his head, his mouth shuddering open the nearer she came. Her eyes dropped closed, her chin raised slightly, angled, as achingly slow, the corners of their mouths brushed - the tiniest of touches, a hummingbird flutter of pressure, lip to lip -

The slam of a cupboard startled them apart, spinning away from each other, gooseflesh rising on their suddenly chilled skin, eyes blinking wide and terrified as Agent May, eyebrow raised, coughed theatrically into her hand.

“Whoops,” she said flatly, reaching past Jemma for the assortment of teas on the tray.

Jemma pivoted swiftly, and ran from the room.

* * *

 

“Hey,” Will said, sidling up to Simmons’ workstation in the lab. He slid a cup of coffee across an open space.

Jemma glanced at it, and then back at his face, unaware of how to tell him that she preferred tea. He had gone to the effort, after all. With a brief smile, she put it to her lips, and drank the bitter liquid.

“You, ahh...You weren’t there when I woke up this morning,” Will began, cautiously. He began to fiddle with the print-outs on her desk, moving aside her samples and moving them back, straightening things into clean lines.

Jemma placed the mug back on the open spot, and patted Will’s hand. “I’m sorry. I...well, I had a lot on my mind.”

“Oh. The lab. Your projects. I know.” He slid closer against the counter, angling his hips towards hers, only keeping them the barest of inches apart. He slid his hand over hers. “I thought maybe you could use a break. It’s Saturday, after all…”

Jemma pulled her hand from beneath his, and reached for the printouts, shifting to move away from all of his hints and suppositions.  She cut a quick glance up to his face, his hooded eyes, the dark and knowing look as his hand reached out to stroke the front of her hip, possessively. “We could sleep in…”

Jemma recoiled, backpedalling away a few steps, her heart in her throat. With a sudden jolt of apprehension, she met his eyes, and saw the stunned hurt that lanced through them.

“I really do have quite a lot…”

“And this is an international espionage and defence agency, we don’t exactly run by civilian timetables,” Bobbi cut in, flicking her gaze between the two of them, scrutinizingly. “Weekends come few and far between.”

Jemma shrugged, hoping to project something akin to disappointment. She felt a roil of nausea curl in her stomach, and grabbed the tray of samples, hastily.

Sex. He was talking about sex. He wanted to have sex with her. It was the first time he had so obviously broached the topic. He’d insinuated a few times, upon his return, but she’d been able, at that point, to head him off at the pass. She had claimed that his mental state was in no way ready for it, that they needed time to reconnect, that his PTSD sometimes kicked in when he was startled or touched too long. The ring of bruises on her upper arm was testament to that, but it was fading - it seemed, much like the memory of when he had held her down, shouting in her face that It was here, and It was after them, and that they needed to get back to the bunker before it took their sanity. He’d only come back to himself after she’d managed to wrench her leg free and kick him in the gut.

He had looked so pained and so hurt, so raw and broken in that moment, that she had pulled him to her chest, as he trembled and cried and apologized, over and over, like a mantra. She had been sure that it was the last she’d have to broach the topic, at least for quite some time.

However, it seemed that she was wrong. How he could bring it up so publicly stunned her - but it wasn’t as though she was familiar with the mores of real relationships. The extent of her knowledge was a few one night stands and a handful of short and unmemorable dalliances. She had no idea what to say.

She felt like she was back in that cage, with Will standing guard and never letting her out.

Fitz was preoccupied when he strode through the door, slipping his ear-defenders from his head and pulling off his safety glasses.

When he glanced up, he noticed immediately that Jemma’s whole form was sketched with anxiety, all stumbling, discombobulated movements, like she wasn’t sure where she was going or how to get there. Her face was positively green.

He was about to come closer, ask her if she was alright, when Will latched onto her elbow, tentatively turning her to face him. In the moment she had to spare, he could see her set her determined face, and gulp, as she spun.

“Listen, _Baby_...”

Fitz wasn’t aware of how tightly he’d been squeezing the safety glasses in his hand, until he heard the way the interloper - the hog-faced, porcine, swine - pronounced ‘Baby’. The plastic arm of the glasses snapped in his hand. It drew Bobbi’s concerned gaze, but not his own.

He was rooted to the spot, watching the way Simmons shifted her armload, freeing one hand to push at the man - her boyfriend (God, it made him want to vomit, just thinking it, made him want to wretch for days).

“Come find me when you’ve got ten minutes free, okay?” He pulled up his brow pleadingly and leaned in for a kiss, grabbing at Jemma’s lab-coat and using it as leverage, planting his lips against hers while she moved her head to the side.

“Will, this is my place of work,” she said quietly but with censure, pivoting away from him and taking a few hesitant steps in the opposite direction, her eyes lighting with apprehension and uncertainty, seeing Fitz mere feet from her.

He gulped, and set his things on his workstation. With his eyes, he asked - _You alright_?

She tilted her head a tiny bit behind her, towards Will, and gave a barely recognizable shake of her head, her eyes shouting apologies at him.

“Okay, well -” With two quick steps, Will had snaked an arm around Jemma’s waist, and pulled her back into a careful hug. “I’ll head out -”

She was already pulling away as Fitz surged forward, ready to -

to….

To _what_? To pull her to him, to step in front of her, in between them, cut whatever invisible hold he had on her? To throw a punch at the man, nearly a foot taller than him? To…

To do ... _.something_.

With a frustrated huff, Will said, “Just _relax_ , Professor. Nobody minds - and it’s not like Hunter and Bobbi don’t canoodle here in the lab, either,” and pulled himself against her in a gesture that was part playful, and part claiming.

_Blind with rage._ The term had never quite made sense to Fitz before, now. But suddenly, his vision was tunnelling and his heart was pounding red through his body, anger coursing hot and jealous and protective through his veins, and he didn’t realize he’d done it until it was over.

The sound of metal scritched across the floor as the sharp shatter of glass crashed into the silence that had followed Will’s statement. The prototype theta-wave generator was scattered, in shards and pieces, across the lab, the orange stabilization plasma oozing towards their feet, viscously.

“Ugh, _Fitz_!” Jemma cried, theatrically, her eyebrows shooting up in grateful thanks. When she thought no one was watching, she shot Fitz a small, indebted smile. It made the fact that he would be spending the entire weekend in the lab, rebuilding the thing (as well as having to explain the expensive blunder to Coulson himself) all worth it.

Outside the glass doors of the lab, May (having silently and wordlessly witnessed the secretive exchange between the two agents) knocked. “I don’t think I need to tell you, but clean this mess up, and report to Coulson on the delay.” She looked pointedly at Fitz and Simmons, and exited.

With an uncertain sound, Simmons said, “The lab is dangerous, Will - please, can we talk about this later? In private?”

His earlier bravado slid from around his shoulders like a security blanket being torn away. He nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets and backing out of the room with an apologetic look. “Yeah. Of course. Whatever you want, Baby.”

* * *

 

The meeting with Coulson had been brief, but the extra hours spent hunched over sensitive data receptors with tweezers and a magnifying glass had been long.

With a growly sigh, Fitz dropped the tweezers and shut his eyes tight, squeezing the bridge of his nose, and rubbing, trying to work away the tension headache that had formed.

He heard the slide of porcelain on metal, and flicked his eyes open to see an enormous mug of tea being slid beside him - far enough away from his equipment, but close enough to still be in reach, and tilted his head up.

“It’s more sugar than tea, really,” Simmons quipped from behind him, bringing a hand, absently, to stroke along the breadth of his back, her palm pressing unaware into the knots in his shoulder. He hadn’t realized he’d been so tense.

With a half-smile and fond eyes, he replied, “You know just wha’ I like.”

“I should hope so, after all this time.” Her eyes grew tender as she watched him take a long sip, humming with pleasure. His shoulders dropped from their highly held tension, and she took it as a cue to move her hand back across, passing across his spine with an affectionate rub.

He made a small noise of contentment, his eyes fluttering closed, as he leaned back against her palm. The invitation was unspoken, and the quiet was kind, so she brought her other hand up to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, gripping the muscle with a rub.

She knew that she shouldn’t.

Knew it right in front of her mind - like a neon sign blinking in a porn shop window - that this was the start of a bad idea, that whatever she was doing would end badly - in awkwardness and distance for her and Fitz, probably, in guilt over Will and whatever their strange relationship required of her, but in that moment, she owned that she was a selfish person, and that regardless, she desired this. This moment.

Her hands seemed to move of their own accord, drawing out grateful sighs and rumbling moans as they travelled over Fitz’s back. Her palms pushed against the knots that had tangled up in him, moving firmly against his shoulder-blades and trapezius, until somewhere, in some fraction of a second, between care and love, between back-rub and exploration, between knowing by rote and memorizing new schema, her fingers drifted up the side of his neck.

His breath had gone shuddery and full, shaking his chest on every inhale, dropping heavy on each exhale. His hands clutched at his trousers, white-knuckled, afraid to move, to break the spell. He tried to hide the moan that quivered out of his mouth when her fingers brushed hesitantly against his hair,  carding through the shorn curls. His head lolled back against her palm, and she curled her nails tenderly against his scalp sending tingles down his spine. If he could have purred, he would have.

The timer on the plasma conductor’s hot-water bath chimed, ringing through the quiet. It should have startled her hands away, should have made her plaster on a bright smile and go see to it, but the plasma could sit in the bath as the water cooled, with no harm done.

And what harm was there, really?

Fitz looked up at her, her palm resting against the shell of his ear now, his face a question mark. He stood, and her hand drifted, passively, down the side of his face, fingertips stroking the tendon in his neck, coming to rest against the open button of his collared shirt.

“Shouldn’ you see to tha?” he asked, his voice low and thick.

Jemma shook her head no.

Fitz took a step forward. Jemma took a step back. His hand curled into the pocket of her lab-coat, steering her towards an open spot of wall, bumping her back against it, pressing his hips against hers. She let out a sigh of anticipation, her eyes fluttering closed.

“I shouldn’ be doin’ this,” he murmured, softly pressing his forehead to hers, brushing the tip of his nose against her cheekbone.

“I know,” she breathed guiltily. “I know.”

He pressed a delicate, chaste kiss, like a flower in a book, against a freckle that dotted her cheek. (“This one’s mine,” he’d said, his naked weight against the whole of her, looking at her with reverent eyes, his thumb brushing against the little brown dot. “The rest are yours, but this one here, this one’s mine,” he’d claimed, that night.)

With a defiant tilt of her head, she brushed her lips, just barely, against his own. “Do it anyway.”

With a surge forward, he canted his hips against hers, grinding his pelvis against the fly of her jeans, feeling his already half-hard cock twitch. She answered with a heady moan.

He hovered over her lips, staring into her eyes, sharing breath like there wasn’t enough oxygen, like there was nothing else left to do. He crashed his lips onto hers in a sudden urgency that surprised them both, his passion igniting hers like a kerosene soaked rag - she dug her nails into his hair, gripping tightly as she hung off his shoulders, desperate for his lips, his tongue - desperate for all of him.

His fingers splayed wide, he brought his hands under her lab-coat to tease at the hem of her long-sleeved t-shirt, before daringly running them up the heated skin of her back, moaning her name into her mouth.

His thumb brushed against the satin of her bra, and he brought his hands around, lifting and manipulating her tits inside them, tweaking her nipples under her shirt.

The sudden sensation of his hands on her nipples stuttered her mouth off his with a wanton moan, accidentally banging her head against the wall.  Suddenly, it was like she was watching the whole thing play out, out of her body - the furtive kisses, the secret, sordid nature of it, the desperate and greedy way she clung to him, her mercenary heart taking no prisoners.

With a start, she blurted, “Oh no,” and regretfully drew her hands away, sliding them down the length of his arms, as if she couldn’t bear to be parted from him, but knew she must.

With a whimper, she circled his wrists, and squeezed his hands as his eyes found hers, confused and guilty. “I’m so sorry,” Jemma managed, strangling the tears in her throat as he stepped back, dropping her hands with a shaky breath.

“-I shouldn’t ha-”

Jemma was suddenly pressing kisses all over his face, and then had pushed herself away, like it had taken force and willpower not to put her lips to his, not to sink down onto the floor of the lab and take his clothes off, to not ride this thing between them to fruition in the dim blue light.

“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t be so _selfish_ ,” she mumbled, quickly pulling the plasma from the water-bath and running from the lab, veritably tripping over her own feet.

“- _Jemma_ …” He’d spun, watching her go, and now, it felt like he was a puppet whose strings had been cut loose, the tension in his limbs seeping out as he fell back against the wall, and sunk, with a whooshing, desire-filled exhale, to the floor, like some discarded rag-doll.

 

* * *

 

Outside, and unbeknownst to them, May lingered in the shadows, her tablet forgotten in her hand as she self-consciously wiped at her eyes, a tiny frown forming. With a small cough, she cleared her throat, and stole down the hall, soundless.  

She missed Andrew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know how many of you feel about honourable!fitzsimmons, or if in truth, that they'd be able to stay away from each other after Will gets back (if he's not evil hydra/inhuman), and I hope no one's offended by the implication here. I know cheating is bad folks, but I hope, at least with Fitzsimmons in this case, it's understandable, and it doesn't come out of nowhere.
> 
> I hope you like it guys! Comments are always welcome, I love to hear your thoughts and I looooooooove getting them! It's like soemone has given you a little flower, and you just hold it to your nose and sniff it all day long and remember how lovely that person was to give you a flower, and you go around with a goofy smile all day long. That's how I am with comments. :D


	6. but carries the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their encounter in the lab, Fitz and Jemma make a decision that will effect everything - but is it the right choice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Its getting to that time of year when IRL obligations outweigh my writing time, so unfortunately, you might be waiting a little bit for another update. I'm hoping to get some work on this done this week/over the weekend, and maybe make it in time for my usual Monday post, but I can't really garauntee it right now...Sorry!
> 
> On the plus side though, I've got a great chunk of vacation time coming up over the Yuletide season, and plan to put it to good use, writing up a storm!

* * *

 

Jemma went to her door after the second firm rap, flattening her hair down and casting a quick glance at the small mirror on her dresser to confirm that there was no lingering witness on her face to what had occurred.

Clearing her throat, Jemma opened the door with false brightness. “Hello, Agent May.”

May brushed past her, extending the tablet in her hand. Jemma closed the door, pre-occupied with the program running on-screen. “Is this it? I thought Daisy was looking into it?”

May nodded succinctly, crossing her arms. “They’ve got another Inhuman with potential. She’s going to Toledo with Mack and Lincoln to size her up - asked me to take over, give a report.”

Jemma swiped at the screen in her hands, taking in the information. “But - there’s nothing here…”

May crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m still digging. Daisy set up a search algorithm to piggyback of the code she implanted into NASA’s data matrix. Once we get his secured identity information, we’ll be able to have a longer feed - Extended family, aunts, cousins, that kind of thing. Until then, you’re the only personal connection he has in the world. At least he’s got that.”

“What about his mother? I know his father died, but what about his mother? Surely -”

“Remarried, or a full name change. Sarah Daniels never shows up in another paper trail. The county clerk’s office in Will’s hometown burnt to the ground before they could digitize all the files. We have no records.” May took the tablet from Jemma’s clawed grip, her face stricken. “We’ll keep digging,” she reminded.

“Yes. Of course. And until we find someone capable of supporting Will through the extent of his trauma, we’ll have to keep him here. I’ll have to see to his care. I’m all he has after all.” As an afterthought, she added, “And his girlfriend. Of course that’s what I should do.”

Jemma swallowed and nodded, her brows pulling together determinedly, her mouth firming into a tough line. It was an expression May knew well. She’d seen it in the mirror hundreds of times. It’d gone away for a while, after the Bus, when Andrew had come back...but she’d been seeing far too much lately. And not just on her own face. There were pieces of it everywhere.

Daisy’s single-minded focus, hawk-like, on screens and on potential team candidates, trying to rapidly build a powered team to fight against Hydra’s own.

Bobbi’s fear, etched against the downturned corners of her lips whenever Hunter went off, half-cocked, into a mission.

The one that worried her most though was Jemma. It was this expression - fully formed, with fear and suffering and dogged perseverance - which made May question, which among her younger mentees was most like her, characteristically, and to wonder what that might mean for her.

For the most part, May stayed out of interpersonal conflicts. Unless they crossed the line into affecting their work, she didn’t care what happened behind closed doors. She liked compartmentalization - to keep things in the boxes in which they fit - and when it started to spill out into different boxes, under those closed doors, leaking into the hallways of life and work, that was when she felt best equipped to say something.

But looking at Jemma, the way her face stiffened, May felt herself soften. She squeezed Jemma’s upper-arm brusquely, and said, “Sometimes you need to step away from what you should do, and do what’s good for you. And sometimes what’s good for a person isn’t protocol. It’s not a rule somewhere. It’s not written down, or easy to follow.”

Jemma scoffed nervously. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting -”

“Bullshit.” May said it firmly, her eyes boring into the younger agent’s.

She brought both hands to Jemma’s shoulders, trying to impress upon her the importance of her advice - trying to impress upon her choice that lay at her feet, the choice May herself had never made. The choice to be happy. Instead, May had chosen duty, and guilt, and retribution. She could see Jemma reaching for that second choice, even as her happiness grew ephemeral. “You're worried that I don't understand the choice you need to make. That I don’t see the weight of it. Well, sometimes that's the burden of doing the right thing for yourself. But Jemma,”

She looked into the younger agent’s eyes, filled with hope and regret. “- you need to survive, because this is killing you. And maybe no one will understand, and maybe it’ll hurt like hell. But it’s not up to them. And it’s not up to me. It’s up to you. And for your sake, I hope you chose yourself.”

May’s lips quirked up, a ghost of affection sitting in the corner of the wry little smile. “...for once.”

“But Will -”

“I’m not saying abandon him. I’m just asking you not to abandon yourself in the process.” May put a motherly palm against Jemma’s cheek. “I’ll let you know when I find something.”

* * *

 

She heard the footsteps behind her - the soft scuff, purposeful, but hesitant - as she leaned her head heavily against the bricks. “Hi, Fitz,” she said, her voice carrying softly in the early morning quiet.

“You alrigh’?”

He stood beside her, barely a foot away, and it was as if something itched along her side, like the seam of her skin was pulled too taut, like he should be closer, like their threads needed to be tightened.

“Just thinking,” she shaded.

Maybe it wasn’t Perthshire. Maybe it would never be. But maybe this, right here, with the sun spilling yellow against sky, like an egg cracked against the bowl-edge of the horizon, maybe this was what she needed to keep going. Fitz and the sunrise.

And maybe he needed it too.

Soundlessly, she reached out a hand, fingers extended, inviting. She felt his fingers slide in between hers. His thumb stroked back and forth, comfortingly.

“I’m sorry, Jemma,” he began. “I know you’re with Will. I know I shouldn’t have pushed it - it’s my f-”

“Don’t you dare, Fitz. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I - I couldn’t help myself. I knew it, in that moment - I knew what would happen. And I wanted it to.”

She turned to face him, and was struck, breathless at the sight - the way the sun’s rays painted the planes of his cheekbones, the clarity of blue in his eyes, like the Aegean - and corrected. “I wanted to kiss you.”

He gave a sharp intake of breath, and took a step forward, turmoil and desire panning his features.

“It's wrong, I know. It’s not fair to you, because I have to be with Will right now - He’s got no one else, and he’s struggling with recovery, and what sort of person would I be, to make him do it alone, without anyone else to support him? I can’t, I want to, but I can’t break-”

“-up with him.” Fitz’s voice was desolate as he dropped her hand. “I know. I should -” He squeezed the bridge of his nose with one hand, scrunching his eyes as he pivoted away, pacing. “-talk to Coulson. Get a transfer, or somethin’ -”

“No!” Jemma cried, tugging at his arm, tugging him to her. He stumbled at her insistent force, finding himself wide-eyed, one hand against the bricks to still his fall, half-pressed against her.

“ _No_ ,” she begged, her hands moving against his chest, inside his collar, to stroke along the line of his jaw. “Please, no. Don’t go.”

“Shite.” He let out a shaky breath, staring down at her entreating eyes, her rose-bud lips, parted, breathing tremulously, hitched with yearning. “You make it hard to be a good man, Jemma.”

“I know,” she admitted, barely audible. “I tried so hard to be good, to do the right thing, but this - what’s between us - it doesn’t play by any rules of morality. And if it means not having you, I can’t be good. I can’t be right. It’s impossible to be without you. It’s impossible for me to be good. I need you too much.”

Her breath shuddered to a stop, her lips pressing shut, against any other terribly true admissions that might fall from her mouth, waiting to see what Fitz would do.

No - knowing what his good and moral and selfless soul would do. Her eyes fell closed, her mouth bowing into a tight frown, knowing she’d done it - she’d said it, pounded the nail into the coffin of it all. God, she was a selfish, needy thing. And it was that selfishness that would lose her the man she loved.

He saw the way she shuttered beneath him, how she drew back her hands and sank into the wall, as if by declaring, out loud, how she needed him, how she wanted him, how she’d cast aside her strict moral code to feel his skin beneath her palms and to taste him on her tongue, it would cause him to give her up.

His arms were at her waist before he could think about his actions, pulling her to him urgently. His shoulders were high as his head dipped, seeking the tragic moue of her lips, recklessly surging against them.

His kiss was a fierce thing, a claiming thing - a thesis proposed on the impossibility of ethics, of defiance to the cosmos that seemed determined to pull them apart, of the comingling of particles a decade in the making - a defense of a love it would be impossible not to have. It was a Devil’s advocate, this kiss, and they’d fallen sway to the argument before it had even began.

When they broke apart, breathing heavy, pupils blown wide, Jemma’s thumb worrying maddeningly at Fitz,’s ear, driving him wild, she panted, “I’m trying. I’m looking for relatives - for anyone else -”

The soft brush of the pad of her thumb made a needy noise rumble in his chest. Turning, he nipped at it, and then pressed a kiss to soothe it, staring into her eyes.

“I know,” he said. “May showed me. Asked for a hand.” His lips moved soft and moist against the swell of her palm.

“An’ until then - I have you, and you have me, an’ morality an’ ethics an’ the whole bloody cosmos can go hang,” he declared with vehemence.

Jemma’s thumb brushed against the softness of his lashes. His eyes fluttered closed with a needy sound, and she pushed up to her tiptoes, slotting her lips over his with a painful gentleness. She tilted her head, parting her mouth, the chasteness of her kiss giving way to something less delicate, but no less devoted, the way her tongue moved against his - it was something deep and tender and resolute.

“If us - if it isn’t right, I don’t think I’ve ever understood the word,” she murmured, her forehead against his, the love and desire in his eyes filling her vision, everything else hazed into the background white and yellow-gold of the sun’s rays, coating them in warmth.

* * *

 

Fitz had gotten up early, forgetting that Will had been scheduled for physical rehab in the training room that morning, and as usual, couldn’t seem to do a thing without Jemma within a twenty foot radius. When she walked in, her lab coat open and framing the sway of her body, her filmy blouse clinging to the roundness of her breasts, a tiny hint of cleavage glimpsed when she bent over her workstation, he had to bite back a groan.

He watched her for a moment while she performed her morning tasks, studiously avoiding looking at him, her cheeks flush. Her eyes flicked over to him, connecting instantaneously, before her blush deepened, she spun, a tiny, anxious smile pinned to her mouth as she greeted Bobbi.

Fitz worried at his thumbnail and slumped back in his chair. Decisively, he pulled out his phone, and tapped out a quick text.

[Message Fitz: You look stunning]

With a blush, she gave him a chastising look before scanning the text on screen. God, she just got pinker - it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen, that bashful little smile, the way her eyebrows peaked - the way she bit the edge of her lip.

With a chuffed grin, he sent another text.

[Message Fitz: I mean it. Stunning. Beautiful. Gorgeous.]

[Message Simmons: I wear this all the time]

[Message Fitz: And you look stunning all the time]

[Message Fitz: It’s a wonder I get any work done at all]

Jemma giggled at her station, and then slapped a hand over her mouth, quickly scanning the faces around her, none but him taking any notice. With fast thumbs, she sent a reply.

[Message Simmons: You’re enjoying this too much! Stop distracting me - I am very busy and important and have oodles of work to do.]

[Message Simmons: The cheek]

Fitz snorted under his breath and leaned back in his chair.

[Message Fitz: Which one? Because if I remember correctly, you seem quite fond of both…]

Jemma dropped her head in her hands, peeking through her fingers over at his grinning face.

[Message Simmons: Oh that’s cruel. Let me work, you bad man]

[Message Fitz: Your bad man]

He saw the colour climb up the back of her neck, curling around the tips of her ears as she turned to face him, biting her lip. She took a long, lingering look at him, and then rapidly typed something out. His phone buzzed.

[Message Simmons: I just want to kiss you all the time.]

[Message Simmons: This is torture.]

His grin slipped off his mouth, bowing into a half-surprised, wanting ‘O’. She grinned from her station, flipped her phone over, and left it to approach one of the lab techs. And then an email came in, forcing his attention back to work.

* * *

 

The day passed uneventfully, until suddenly, it was past midnight, and he was laying in bed, thinking about her silky hair, and the feel of her body beneath his.

[Message Fitz: Thinking about you]

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed in his hands.

[Message Simmons: Me too]

[Message Simmons: Thinking about you, I mean.]

She carefully shielded the phone light, cradling it into her chest as she waited for a reply. The thin blanket of the couch wasn’t warm enough, but she wouldn’t go near the bed to drag off the spare coverlet, for fear of waking Will. He’d been sleeping so well recently - she didn’t want to jinx it.

[Message Fitz: How are you?]

Jemma smiled, her thumb stroking at the message. Even like this, even over an electronic medium, he was so doting.

[Message Simmons: Good]

[Message Simmons: A little cold]

Fitz clutched the phone tightly in his grip. He had been about to ask why - standard issue coverlets were warm - and then he’d remembered.  It took him a few minutes to cool his head and respond.

[Message Fitz: Blanket-stealer, is he?]

Within seconds, she replied.

[Message Simmons: I’m on the couch.]

He felt a weight lift, like an anvil had shifted off his chest.

[Message Fitz: Oh]

[Message Simmons: If his recovery continues at this pace, I might try to sleep in my own bed in the next few days]

[Message Simmons: And May has a few leads she’s following up on]

[Message Fitz: Hey]

[Message Fitz: Don’t do that]

[Message Fitz: I can spot that guilt spiral from here]

[Message Fitz: I know you’re trying your hardest]

[Message Fitz: I shouldn’t have asked - wasn’t fair of me]

[Message Fitz: I just don’t really know how to go about this]

[Message Simmons: It’s okay.]

[Message Fitz: ‘other man’ business]

[Message Simmons: I know, I know - I’m so sorry]

[Message Fitz: I mean it Jem, don’t do that to yourself. It’s the situation, it’s not you]

[Message Fitz: We love each other. We’ll find a way.]

[Message Fitz: And, to be honest, it’s a bit of a boost to my ego. Never thought I’d be]

[Message Simmons: An object of desire?]

[Message Fitz: The one you wanted. The one anyone wanted. Especially not this bad, not like this - where nothing else seems to matter as much]

[Message Simmons: You silly man]

[Message Simmons: Of course you are. You’re the only one. I never, ever want to be without you]

[Message Simmons: Even these few hundred feet are miserable]

[Message Fitz: I know]

[Message Fitz: I wish you were here beside me]

[Message Fitz: I want to hold you. And kiss you. And touch you.]

[Message Simmons: God, Fitz]

[Message Simmons: I want that too.]

 

On the bed, Will shifted disconcertingly, beginning to flail. Telltale signs of a nightmare.

 

[Message Simmons: good night Fitz. xx]

 

“Je-?” Will’s voice was muffled by the pillow, thick with sleep and panic. “Professor?”

“Jemma!?” He shouted, shooting up, knocking the covers into her path as he stumbled to his feet with a whine, his ankle landing badly, on the weak part, as he floundered. He tried to balance himself, to level out and find his strength. Instead, when he felt her slim arms brace against him, lowering him to the floor, he collapsed against Jemma in heaving sobs.

“I dreamt you were gone - that the storm came up and It was there, and I was shooting at it and shouting for you, but you left me anyways, and it just kept coming, no matter how many times I shot it, and I couldn’t run, and I was all alone!” He cried, clinging to her, his bear-like hand clawing into the thin t-shirt material at her back.

Hidden under a couch cushion, her phone buzzed.

 

[Message Fitz: Sweet dreams Jem. xx]

****  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huuuuuuuuuge giant hug and massive mugs of whipped cream topped hot chocolate to my best gals, my awesome Betas, Notapepper and Notthestupidcatagain, without whom I'd probably walk off an unforgivable ledge with this story! These are the people that keep me balanced walking the tightrope! And also keep my grammar appropriate, and boost my confidence when I'm getting nervous about a thing. And they're also the greatest people to pull apart a plot problem with - so ladies, as ever, my biggest thanks goes to you!!!
> 
> *claps wildly*

**Author's Note:**

> I plan, currently, on 14 chapters and an epilogue. I'm hoping to actually keep to a posting schedule here, so (after the first week), I plan to post every Monday!
> 
> Fingers crossed that I can actually do it!


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